


Grace for the Graceless

by atlas_white



Series: Bad Days are Coming [3]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 18:43:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17709503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlas_white/pseuds/atlas_white
Summary: Now freed from the Nightmare Throne, Maxwell finds he needs to readjust to having a mortal, physical body. He is given help by the unlikely saviour who set him free in the first place.





	Grace for the Graceless

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for bingo: Maxwell/Wilson, Forgetting to Eat, requested by DrDadster & Brownpelican73.  
> (Request [here](https://atlas-white.tumblr.com/post/182223359026/im-doing-a-fanfic-bingo-card-so-requests-are-open))

Being released from the Nightmare Throne had been an event of indescribable significance to Maxwell. It had been unexpected, a relief beyond measure come as a complete surprise solely from the mercy of a man discarded by the world that had birthed him. 

He felt as though he were rediscovering himself; the breeze on his skin had never felt real when he projected himself onto the surface, even if he had physically been present. It was a dark and complicated thing, just like so much about him since he had discovered that damned book, since They had gotten their claws around him and squeezed until there was nothing left but a dry and lonesome husk. He had learned quickly how to extend himself, but there was no replacement for simply _being_ himself, only flesh and blood, terribly, beautifully mortal.

There were all these feelings that he almost couldn't understand anymore, the least physical discomfort or pleasure fit to overwhelm him. He forgot himself in many ways, too, so accustomed to being bound and eternal that to exist as a human (tainted though he was, still with claws and fangs and eyes of molten gold) seemed more like a transformation into something unrecognizable than a return to his natural state. 

He recognized tiredness better than other things, not for the need to sleep but for the lack of energy which had always indicated that he needed to return to himself and regain his power. The dryness in his mouth of thirst came second, because it had become to utterly alien to him. What strangeness, to feel his throat close because he hadn't had water to drink lately; he was thrilled with the discomfort, for there could be no mistaking how truly human it was.

The real issue came from hunger. Hunger was a sneaky thing, cruel as it approached so subtly, giving no sign of itself until suddenly there came the pain of starvation. It was easy to miss when it came crawling up while one was at work, or concerned with other things. Maxwell routinely forgot to eat, simply because he was so unaccustomed to it, and because hunger so preferred not to be known.

It frustrated him, how easily he could make himself sick just by letting it slip his mind. There were certain drawbacks to humanity that he could have done without. The inability to conjure his cigar was another.

"Maxwell?" the name was spoken softly with a gentle British accent, and it occurred to Maxwell for the first time that it was no longer sufficient to summon him. He would never again hear someone else utter his name from across forests, ruins, and darkness. The realization was a comforting one; it illustrated to him that, even still trapped on the Constant, he was no longer as a dog forced to hear and respond to its masters. He was his own man now.

"Yes, Hig... Wilson?" Maxwell turned his eyes on the scientist, and for a moment their gazes met, molten gold and the silver of evening stormclouds. Like the sun and the moon. Like the two of them.

A smile graced Wilson's lips at this, and Maxwell felt a twinge in his chest that he presently recognized as his heart leaping at the sight. The scientist approached, bringing with him the scent of coal and a rough-hewn wooden tray of his own devising, piled with food. 

"Here, I thought you might be hungry," Wilson explained, setting the tray down next to the former King of Shadows. 

It was humbling; Maxwell didn't like how that felt. Yet, much more powerful was the impact of simply having this attention shown him. That Wilson noticed his hunger, his forgetfulness, the inconsistencies of his form and function was so incredible to him as to strike him with awe, leaving him momentarily speechless as if the scientist had instead struck him.

It was enough to leave Maxwell gaping like an imbecile. 

"Is something the matter?" Wilson asked, and it seemed so foolish because everything was the matter, he most of all. There was no end to what was the matter. There was perhaps not even a beginning, lost to that starry-eyed fool who had gone to the New World seeking fame as a magician, to the darkness he took into himself in the pursuit of childish dreams and an escape from debts piling high on the horizon. 

Maxwell recovered himself, shaking his head as much in disbelief as in answer to the question. "Nothing, Higgsbury. Wilson. Thank you for this, it was very... thoughtful of you."

Wilson was unsure; trust him to see through the façade. He was a pragmatic eye, consistently able to see through the disguises and tricks of the magician to the man behind the smoke and mirrors. He had had Maxwell pegged since they'd spoken on the radio what seemed like an eternity ago, and Maxwell had never known until the key was fitted into the lock and the Nightmare Throne was suddenly gone from underneath him.

Yet, Maxwell, who had so prided himself on being able to uncover the scientist's every weakness, couldn't even figure out why Wilson did the things he did.

"Are you quite certain?" Wilson asked, and then his fingers were brushing Maxwell's arm where they surely didn't belong. "Go on: what's bothering you?"

Maxwell laughed dryly and found himself longing for his cigar. If only he'd had the foresight to put tobacco in this accursed place, or something like it. He supposed They wouldn't have tolerated such an obvious sleight.

"Didn't you hear me? Nothing is bothering me, but I thank you for your concern." 

"Very well, then, I sha'n't pry," Wilson replied with a shrug, taking back his hand (a shame) and turning away to leave.

Maxwell exhaled a long, low breath from between pursed lips; not quite a sigh, but burdened in much the same way. He watched Wilson walk away from the corner of his eye.

"Wilson." he said, almost surprising himself with the force of his deep voice in the stillness and quiet of the evening, the aftermath of an uncomfortable encounter.

Wilson stopped immediately, the soft sound of his footfalls gone at once from the heavy air. He turned back to look at Maxwell, something deep and unreadable to his expression. There was a set to his jaw like he was about to reveal a secret, but he said nothing at all save the brief acknowledgement, "Yes?"

Maxwell turned to look at him properly once more, standing tall and proud like he'd never lost a war. His sleeves were rolled up, showing where the stains on his arms traveled up and faded slowly from that unnatural, inky black to the dark brown of natural skin. Human skin.

"Why did you do it?" 

Wilson tilted his head to one side as though he couldn't possibly know what Maxwell meant. It frustrated the magician; surely the scientist must have known exactly what he was asking.

"Bring you dinner? Because you needed it." Wilson answered, his voice as kind and unknowable as a heavenly host.

Maxwell furrowed his brow and raised his chin slightly. "Why did you set me free?"

"Oh." So he really _hadn't_ known. Really Wilson looked surprised, as if the thought had never even occurred to him. As if it were only natural that he ought to brave the fires of Hell to rescue his captor from their scorching retribution.

The younger man came walking back, stopping within arm's reach of Maxwell, and looked up at him like he'd never seen something so worthy of his mercy.

"You were in the same prison as I was," Wilson told him. "As soon as I realized that, I knew that I... I couldn't leave you behind while I found my way out of the Constant."

There _was_ no way out of the Constant, Maxwell thought. Yet, if anyone could escape it regardless, he was sure it was Wilson. His admiration for him was boundless, even finding it so difficult as he did to give it a voice. 

"Besides," Wilson went on before Maxwell could interject, "I have always been very fond of you, don't you know that?" It was so cheeky, the way he stated that as if it were the easiest thing in the world. He took Maxwell's wretched, clawed hands into his own, catching the former king's heart effortlessly between them.

He could have wrapped it around his finger. He could have crushed it with a word.

"After all the times I told you not to waste your time with me," Maxwell answered, his voice little more than a whisper. He would have been so displeased with that once. Now he scarcely noticed.

Wilson chuckled; this was all so easy to him, wasn't it? Every last word so uncomplicated, a grace from somewhere that could never interact with the Constant and its beasts. "Aren't you glad I didn't listen?" 

Maxwell gave a snort, not quite a chuckle like the one he'd just been given. He gazed down at their hands, taking his time to marvel at the contrast between them, Wilson's pale and thin and scarred, their secrets bared for the want of gloves; his own long and black and monstrous. It was a contrast sharper even than their eyes, and it shook Maxwell to the bone.

"Yes," he said breathlessly, at length, barely able to summon the wherewithal to answer at all. The answer to that question was the only thing he knew now. It was everything, the beginning and the end, the only thing that mattered to him now. "I could not be more grateful to you, Wilson."

"Ah, there you are! Getting it right on the first try this time," Wilson said softly, not quite teasing, but with a mischievous lilt to his voice. "It's easy, isn't it? And I do so enjoy the way my name sounds on your lips."

"Wilson," Maxwell repeated, and it rose up like a chant from inside him, every last cell and organ repeating that name that meant more to him than his own name (adopted, meaningless). "Wilson. Wilson, Wilson, Wilson..." 

It had an effect; Wilson responded to his name, leaning up to Maxwell, still holding his hands, and Maxwell knew suddenly with perfect clarity what was coming and he was _ready for it._ He was leaning down to greet it, accepting it as it came, and then there were lips against lips, life pouring into Maxwell's hungry body, giving him the scientist's strength, rejuvenating him like cold water.

He held his breath as he savoured it like the finest wine, squeezing Wilson's hands gently with his own fearsome talons as he greedily took in all that he had to offer, and returned the kiss with every ounce of the passion with which it was given. He hummed softly, and felt the scientist shiver as if it had been their first kiss.

When at last they parted, there was a long silence, a meeting of eyes and minds with their hands still joined, neither one of them at all ready to begin breathing again. They were not opposites, they were two sides of a coin, bound in all ways by unseeable fate. Two prisoners in the same dark cell; two heroes who would see themselves freed. It would have taken a fool not to realize, and even more not to embrace it.

It seemed like an eternity went by, a kingdom rose and fell before either of them spoke again. 

It was Wilson, of course, whispering, "I hope that answers your question."

Maxwell could have laughed, if he'd had the breath. As it was, all he could do was sweep Wilson up and kiss him again, deciding to let the generously gifted food wait a little longer while he rewarded the kind saviour who had brought it to him, and who had made him need it in the first place. The man who was the pain in his belly, and the cure for all suffering.


End file.
